“Whatchu say, gal?? I caint believe ya tol’ me some white folks was doin’ our talkin’. Now, if ya want me to help ya, don’t say nary another word to me till I’m tellin’ ya I’m finished. Now, listen. Them whites what owned slaves took everythin’ was ourselves & didn’t even keep it fo’ they own selves. Just threw it on away, ya heah. Took them drums what they could, but they couldn’t take our feet. Took them languages what we speak. Took off wit our spirits & left us wit they Son. But the fiddle was the talkin’ one. The fiddle be callin’ our gods what left us/be givin’ back some devilment & hope in our bodies worn down & lonely over these fields & kitchens. Why white folks so dumb, they was thinkin’ that if we didn’t have nothin’ of our own, they could come controllin’, meddlin’, whippin’ our sense on outta us. But the Colored smart, ya see. The Colored got some wits to em, you & me, we ain’t the onliest ones be talkin’ wit the unreal. What ya think music is, whatchu think the blues be, & them get happy church musics is about, but talkin’ wit the unreal what’s mo’ real than most folks ever gonna know.”

With that Uncle John placed the fiddle in the middle of his left arm & began to make some conversations with Miranda & Indigo. Yes, conversations. Talkin’ to em. Movin’ to an understandin’ of other worlds. Puttin’ the rhythm in a good sit down & visit. Bringin’ the light out a good cry. Chasing the night back round yonder. Uncle John pulled that bow, he bounced that bow, let the bow flirt with those strings till both Miranda & Indigo were most talkin’ in tongues. Like the slaves who were ourselves had so much to say, they all went on at once in the voices of the children: this child, Indigo.

When Indigo first tried to hold the fiddle under her neck like the children in the orchestra at school, Uncle John just chuckled, looked away. When she had it placed nearer her armpit & closer to her heart, with the bow tucked indelicately in her palm, he said, “Now talk to us, girl.” Indigo hesitated, pulled the bow toward the A string, took a breath, & stopped. “I don’t know how to play a violin, Uncle John.”

“Yeah, ya do. Tell Miranda somethin’ on that fiddle. ’Cause after today, ya won’t be able to reach out to her like ya do now. Ya gonna haveta call her out, wit that fiddle.”